And One More Makes Fifty
by solvethebomb
Summary: Santana and Quinn manage their relationship around Santana's deployment to Afghanistan. Originally written for Quinntana Week as a Meet the Family one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Not entirely sure why my "Meet the Family" story starts with smut, it just kind of happened. Hope you guys enjoy Day 3!**

* * *

"Santana," she breathes, surprised that I'm standing at her door.

"Hi," I whisper with a small smile.

I don't let her speak another word, pushing her back into her apartment and dropping my bag off my shoulder as I bring my mouth to hers.

Quinn's hands fly to up to my hair, pulling me against her, as my hands grip her hips tightly. I don't waste any time, sliding my tongue into her mouth at the first opportunity and swallowing the hot moan that comes from her throat. We lick and nip at each other's lips, competing for dominance.

I walk her backwards to the nearest wall and press her firmly against it, grabbing her hands and pinning them above her head as I move my mouth to her jaw and neck.

"_Jesus_…" she sighs quietly when I suck hard at her soft skin.

She pushes me back and immediately reaches down to pull her shirt off, not even pausing before bringing her hands behind her to unclasp her bra as well.

I stand frozen for a moment, taking her in. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she is.

Quinn takes in my expression and smirks at me, reaching out to undo the buttons on my uniform top. Her movement snaps me out of my reverie and in just minutes we have left a trail of clothes on our way to the bedroom. She pulls me by my hand as I stare at her perfectly round ass.

There is no way I can wait another 20 steps or so.

I stop and grip her hand tighter, turning her back to me. She flashes me a questioning look as I press her body between yet another wall and myself, but I chase it away with a kiss, my hands braced on either side of her head for the moment.

My breath catches as her fingertips glide lightly up and down my sides, hitting spots that only Quinn knows will make my muscles jump involuntarily. She grins against my mouth as my body reacts to her touch, and I feel a rush of love and desire for her.

I slide my hand down between us, pulling back to look at her face as my fingers slip along her wet slit. The widened hazel eyes, the harsh gasp, the way her forehead falls to my shoulder, I never realized it was possible to find such individual reactions from a person so fucking sexy.

I use just enough pressure to part her swollen lips and ghost over her clit, reveling in the way she bucks against my hand, seeking more from me. I refrain from indulging her just yet, even though I want to be inside of her more than anything. She picks her head up to look at me from half-lidded eyes.

"Santana," she breathes my name again, but now her voice is harsh and deep, "_please._"

Quinn says "_please_" like it's an oath, a substitute word falling from her lips when she'd rather be saying "_fuck_." It's more air than sound, and she sucks in a short breath when she's finished with it, her mouth dropping open as her eyes snap shut.

Sexy looks so fucking good on her.

My fingers slip down to her entrance and I slowly insert one finger, watching her face as her head falls back against the wall. The uneven breathing coming from her heaving chest mesmerizes me as I begin to move inside her, but Quinn wants more, her need evident in the taut lines on her face and the way she tries to meet my hand. She shakes her head in frustration.

"More, San. Harder."

It's a simple whisper that sends heat through my body. I will always have a weakness for Quinn's raspy sex voice telling me what it is she wants.

I oblige, adding another finger and picking up the pace immediately. A smile flashes across her perfect mouth and she wraps her leg around me, pulling me even closer.

She tilts her head down to kiss me. It's a hot, wet, sloppy kiss because I'm thrusting into her so hard and she is canting her hips to meet my hand.

This beautiful blonde girl is coming undone around me and it's intoxicating. I angle my hand so that my palm slaps her sensitive mound as my fingers work inside of her. The change hits Quinn immediately and her straightened knee gives, dropping her slightly before I pin her to the wall with my body.

I laugh lightly at her whine as I slide my fingers out of her and wrap my hands under the curve of her ass, pulling her up so that she can wrap both legs around me. She kisses me intensely as I walk us the rest of the way to the bedroom and lay her on the bed.

Her legs fall open as I hover over her, the expression on her face so incredibly needy. I don't wait, sliding my fingers back inside of her and slowly building the rhythm back up. Quinn's body arches into my touch as I take one of her perfect nipples into my mouth.

I play with her hardened peak, my tongue flicking against it before my teeth graze it lightly. Quinn opens one eye for the barest hint of a second, snapping it shut again when she sees the inside of my bottom lip run over her nipple. A smile forms on my lips of its own accord and I brace myself above her as I concentrate on bringing her to the edge.

My hand picks up speed and a steady stream of swear words begin to fall from Quinn's mouth. One of her fists grasps at the sheets, the other comes up to grip my shoulder.

"Oh God. _OH GOD! _So close, so close, baby _so close_," she promises, her voice desperate.

This face, her expression, are almost my undoing. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, her eyebrows rising even as her eyes stay shut. The lip falls free when she sucks in a deep breath and quivers beneath me, every muscle going rigid as she rides out her orgasm.

She's beautiful. She's sexy. She's _mine_.

I've missed her so much my heart aches just thinking about it.

Quinn sighs. It's a deep, contented sound that washes over me as I move up her body and lay down next to her. Hazel-green eyes slowly open to look into mine, and a smile plays at perfect lips. She reaches out, pulling my body against hers, and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.

I prop my head up on my hand and just look at her, overcome, as I often am, by how gorgeous she is. Quinn gazes steadily back at me, so vulnerable and yet so comfortable at the same time. We share a soft kiss.

"I've missed you," I whisper, closing my eyes. Those simple words don't even come close to the emptiness I've felt without her.

"Oh baby, I've missed you too," she answers, and tingles shoot through my body. I've never wanted to be loved by anyone the way I do with Quinn. "Why didn't you tell me you were back?"

"They kept changing the dates on us. I got stuck in Kuwait for days, which, by the way is still a complete and total hell hole," I tell her, rolling my eyes at the shit mess my travel back from Afghanistan has been. "I didn't have much internet access there and once I got back to the States I realized I somehow forgot to turn my cell service back on. So I just hopped in the first cab I saw and told the guy to take me to you. Besides, seeing the look on your face was so worth not telling you."

"You're so mean! I thought I was imagining things at first!"

I raise my eyebrow and smirk.

"You must have a _very _vivid imagination."

"So you have 15 days starting today?" Quinn asks, ignoring my suggestive statement.

"I have 15 days starting tomorrow, and I'm all yours until I have to go back," I promise.

Quinn's brow furrows with concern.

"You won't be seeing your parents at all?" she asks in a small voice. This is a sensitive topic, and I don't really want to discuss it right now. I flop onto my back and look up.

"No. My mother wants me to come home but I have no interest in seeing her and her new boyfriend. And my dad is still in Afghanistan. He doesn't get to take mid-tour just because I am. I'll see him when I pass through Bagram again."

Quinn nods. I don't tell her that I had lunch with my dad when I stopped there on my way home, so we're good for another year or so. Any other lunches are just bonus.

"Well then we better not waste a minute of our time," my girlfriend says lightly, leaning forward to give me a quick kiss. "And step one is to get you in the shower. You smell like sand and sweat and foreign countries."

I laugh at that, because I don't doubt that it's true.

* * *

Quinn's calves are on my lap and I'm rubbing them absently, enjoying the feeling of her smooth skin under my fingertips while we watch the Walking Dead and wait for the Thai food we ordered. I'm woefully behind on so much pop culture, but this is my favorite show and it's nearly impossible in the Stone Ages of Afghanistan to download a full episode of the new season without the internet going out and starting the download over. It's infuriating.

The screen freezes and I turn to Quinn in confusion as she puts down the remote.

"So I was wondering…" she begins, her hazel eyes dropping to her hands. It's rare to see my pretty blonde girl so hesitant. She's usually such a driven, confident person.

"What, baby?"

Quinn sighs and brings her eyes to mine, gathering the courage to ask whatever it is.

"I was wondering if you'd be willing to come with me to my family's vacation house next weekend," she finally admits, her gaze steady but her body language apprehensive.

My eyes widen in surprise. We've been together, officially, for almost a year. I've been gone for nearly six months of that, but even when I was still stateside I wasn't exactly close by. We've built our relationship around long weekends, Skype, and an instantaneous connection that took us both by surprise.

I'm ready to marry this girl, but haven't given much thought to when I'd meet her entire, humongous family.

I'll never forget the conversation in which Quinn told me about her family, sparking a small envious flame in me as she described how close-knit her mother's side is.

* * *

"_So wait, you're all __**numbered**__? How exactly does __**that**__ work?"_

"_Basically, when someone is born or married into the family, they get their number. So, for example, when I was born on June 5__th__, 1984 there were 21 people in my family already, so I am number 22."_

"_Wow. So how many are there now?"_

"_My niece just brought us up to number 49."_

"_49?! You have 49 family members on one side, and you actually know all of their names?"_

_Quinn laughed._

"_Yup. Every summer since I was an infant we've gone to our vacation house, which we just call the House, and spent holidays or summer weeks there, so I actually know my cousins pretty well."_

_My mouth dropped open. This idea was unimaginable to me._

"_Wow. That sounds kinda awesome."_

"_Yeah, it's pretty cool."_

* * *

Quinn is looking at me expectantly.

"Umm, yeah. Sure babe, if that's what you want to do, then I'd love to," I finally tell her, swallowing down my nervousness.

The most beautiful face in the world brightens radiantly when I agree to meet her gigantic family in one place, over one weekend. I've only ever spoken to her mother on Skype one time, and now I'm about to meet a family of 49 people.

"Oh my God, you will? Thank you, San, thank you so much!" Quinn leaps up and straddles me, her arms draped over the back of couch. "They're going to love you. I've pictured you coming to the House for so long now."

"Really?"

"Well yeah, baby. I talk about you all the time, I want everyone to finally see how amazing you really are."

"You talk about me?" I don't know why this is so surprising to me. Probably because my dysfunctional family is so detached that we rarely talk unless something big comes up. Quinn cocks her head to the side and studies my face.

"Santana…you are…you're the most important thing in my life. Of course I talk about you. My entire family has been waiting to hear that you're back in the States ever since I mentioned your mid-tour break would be around this time. They made me promise to bring you to the House if you were home during one of the big weekends," she tells me earnestly. Her eyes are intent on mine, trying to read my reaction.

I lean up and kiss her gently, my hands resting on her slender hips.

"You know I love you, right? I think about you all the time, over there. Whether I'm out on foot, walking some shitty mountain, or back at the base, hitting the gym—you are always on my mind. Every minute I'm there I'm just counting down to seeing you again."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, babe."

Quinn smiles and ghosts her lips over my own.

"I love you, too."

* * *

I'm holding Quinn's hand as she drives us towards her family's vacation home. My mind is being blown by the speed at which we're moving, having only driven in weighted down armored trucks on nonexistent roads for the past 5 months. I haven't moved at a speed greater than maybe 25 miles an hour on the ground, and that's on a good day. Right now we're going almost 60. I have to keep reminding myself that this is normal, and absolutely not a reason to crush my girlfriend's hand with my death grip. She keeps smiling over sympathetically, unsure what will ease my discomfort.

"We're almost there, San. Do you need me to stop or something?" Quinn asks gently.

I shake my head and marvel at the telephone poles whipping by. It bothers me more than I expected that things in America seem weird to me now. This isn't my first rodeo, I've come back from deployment before, but it's still a fresh feeling, and it makes me worry about how I'll feel after 6 more months over there. I close my eyes and focus on the good things.

Quinn. Fresh air. Real mattresses. Reliable internet. _Quinn_. Food options. Civilian clothes. **Quinn**. Alcohol. Movie theaters. _**Quinn**_.

"Santana, open your eyes."

I comply with Quinn's request and am instantly overwhelmed. Lining a long driveway are the members of her family, holding up American flags and signs welcoming me home. I know it's her family based on the matching shirts adorned with big numbers.

At first I just gape at them, but then roll my window down and smile and wave, listening to them cheer as we pass by until we finally park next to a beautiful house. Before we get out I look at my girlfriend and shake my head at her, overwhelmed. She gives me a radiant smile and a kiss before jumping out of the car and starting to greet her many family members.

I climb out of the car and take in my surroundings. The House is clearly pretty old but well maintained, a recently repainted white. A large American flag hangs from a balcony in the front, in good shape but faded from being flown regularly. Another sign hangs next to it that says "Welcome Home SSG Santana Lopez."

I blink back the tears that have begun to form. This family that isn't mine has gone to such great lengths for me. It's amazing.

Quinn makes her way over to me and takes my hand, leading me slowly to the House, where her extended family has slowly started to gather after walking back down the driveway.

I immediately recognize Quinn's mom, Judy, when she steps forward to wrap me in a tight hug. She's wearing a shirt that says "5."

"Welcome home, Santana. We're so glad you're here," she says in my ear before releasing me.

"Thank you _so_ much. This is really just…too much," I reply.

A handsome older guy wearing number 1 loops an arm around Judy's shoulders in a brotherly manner and smiles at me.

"Welcome to the House, Santana. I'm Quinn's Uncle Charlie and the old man around here. We've got cold beer in the coolers and dinner is getting started shortly. I hope you like good old fashioned American barbecue?"

"Yes! God, definitely. I've missed real barbecue so much," I confess with a grin.

"Good! We're going to let Quinn here take you up to the room you'll be staying in, but I just wanted to welcome you as the patriarch of the Carlson family. Oh, and Quinn, your new family shirt is up on your bed."

"Thanks Uncle Chuck, we'll be right down," my pretty girl says with a light squeeze of my hand.

I'm introduced to a few more people as we pass through room after room and then head upstairs. Quinn stops at a room with two twin beds in it and an air mattress.

"This is where I always stay. I'm the youngest of the first cousins, so I've always gotten a sleeping bag on the floor. For your visit though, I finagled us an air mattress big enough for both of us." She looks adorably contrite, as if this would bother me at all.

"Q, I've been sleeping on a three inch thick foam "mattress" thrown on top of a piece of plywood. An air mattress next to you sounds like heaven to me," I say, leaning in to give her a light kiss that she smiles into.

She picks up her family shirt from the air mattress and quickly changes, turning to proudly present her "22" designation. I outline the numbers with my fingers and shake my head.

"You know this is kind of crazy, right?"

"Oh, totally. I love it though. Coming here has always been a kind of refuge for me. After dinner I'll show you some of my favorite places. I was that kid that always wandered off to read a book in some hidden location, I'd love to show you." Quinn has the cute shyness thing going for her right now.

"I'd love to see anything you want to show me," I whisper truthfully, my hands on her hips. I get a big grin in response, along with a slight blush. This girl is seriously the most adorable human being on earth.

"Let's go downstairs, babe. I apologize in advance for any stories about my childhood you have to endure, and also the high likelihood that my older guy cousins will try to corner you and ask your intentions for me. They take no small amount of pride in intimidating the significant others of their younger cousins, but it's all for show, don't worry."

"First of all, yes to all of your childhood stories, I cannot wait to see you blush when they start telling them. Secondly, I'm not worried about your cousins because my intentions are nothing but pure."

Quinn laughs at me.

"Liar," she whispers.

* * *

This family is amazing. I don't know how else to put it. We are sitting at one of the many tables set up for dinner and I am being regaled by Quinn's greatest hits while she is, predictably, blushing.

"Wait, wait, wait. Has anyone told the story about when she was a flower girl in Rob's wedding?" Quinn's sister Frannie interjects as she passes through holding Quinn's _gorgeous_ niece. The whole table reacts excitedly when they're reminded of a story they'd evidently forgotten.

"Oh God, no. Come on Fran, give me a break!" Quinn is already burning a brighter shade of red than I've ever seen and I'm so excited to hear this story it's not even funny.

"Okay, so get this: Quinn is like what, 9 years old? Anyway, she's around 9 and she is the flower girl for Robbie, one of our older cousins. So it's maybe a week or two before the wedding and she and I are playing soccer or something in our backyard, and the ball goes in a slightly wooded area."

Quinn has her face buried in her hands and she's shaking her head.

"Well Quinnie goes running after it, just a little ball of energy, she really never stopped running. So she grabs the ball and turns around, still running, and just catches a face full of tree, she just runs straight into it."

"No!" I interject, because I did _not_ see that coming.

"Oh yes, and her face is just completely gnarly. Half of it is covered in bark and blood, it was actually quite horrifying to look at."

"Aww, baby!" I kiss Quinn's cheek even though she's still covering her face.

"_Miraculously_, her face healed enough before the wedding that she didn't look like a hot mess, and she obviously didn't grow up looking like Harvey Dent. Still, I'll never forget her just turning and full on sprinting into a tree. Classic Quinn." Her sister laughs in an affectionate way that tells me this is a story Quinn is used to being teased about.

My girlfriend shakes her head at everyone, rolling her eyes in mock irritation. One of her cousins clears his throat and speaks up.

"Okay, all of the Carlson's, we're going to need you to clear out so that we can have a little conversation with Santana here."

"Guys…no. It's the first day!" Quinn objects, but I just cover her hand with mine.

"No, it's fine Q. I don't mind at all." In truth, my stomach is clenching nervously, but I give her a smile anyway.

"You're sure?" Her eyes search mine.

"Absolutely. Go hang with the rest of your family. I'll come find you when we're done."

Quinn gives me a quick kiss and glances back at me as she heads outside with her mom and aunts and uncles that were sitting with us. I look back at the five guys left in the room.

"Okay, gents, before you ask, I'll just go ahead and tell you. I intend to marry your cousin. I'm absolutely positive that she is the one for me, and I will do anything to make her happy for the rest of our lives. The ring is upstairs in my bag, I just need to find the right moment and ask Judy first. Now, what are your questions?"

Five slow smiles spread across handsome faces and I know I've made allies out of Quinn's "intimidating" cousins.

"Just one: what can we do to help?"

* * *

It's our last evening at the House, and I'm taking a walk with Quinn over the slight rolling hills of a meadow on the property. All of the pieces have fallen into place perfectly, and I know I'll soon have my chance to ask this incredible, perfect girl to be mine forever.

The cousins worked up a ruse to distract Quinn and get me time alone with Judy so that I could ask permission first, which was a big step. I felt confident that she'd grant it to me, but I was still so nervous. Quinn and her mom are extremely close after surviving the fall out of Judy's divorce from Quinn's dad. She doesn't talk about it much, but I get the impression he disowned Q after she came out and Judy chose her daughter over her marriage. Having Judy approve of us getting married is huge.

I listen to Quinn talk about wandering around out here as a little girl and try to picture her as a tiny blonde ball of energy going on adventures with a book and her brilliant imagination. Our fingers are loosely intertwined, and I pull the back of her hand up to my lips for a moment. We're almost to her favorite spot, and I need to steady my nerves.

As we walk into the clearing she like to read in as a child, Quinn pauses, taking in the sight before her. The five eldest Carlson boys have set up dozens of electric tea candles around the clearing, contained in various white lanterns and holders that Frannie promised to pick out, not trusting the Boys with the task. It's not very dark out, but the candles shimmer beautifully against the dusky light of the evening.

I continue forward, leading Quinn to the center of the clearing. She gives me a questioning look that surprises me because she is so smart and I thought for sure she'd have picked up on what this is by now. I'm glad though, as I lean forward to gently brush her lips with mine before taking a step back to look her in the eye.

"Quinn," I begin, more than nervous than I've ever been, "I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of loving. Every single moment we have spent together has been pure magic, proof to me that soul mates do exist and that you are mine. I want, more than anything, to spend the rest of my time on this earth loving you and being there for you. So…"

I shakily remove the princess-cut diamond ring from my pocket as I kneel down, hazel-green eyes widening as she watches me.

"Will you marry me?"

Decades, centuries, millennia, _eons_ pass in the breath between my question and Quinn dropping to her knees in front of me, kissing me as she squeals, "Yes. Yes! YES!"

_Yes._ She said _yes._

I pull back reluctantly from her barrage of kisses and grab her left hand, sliding the ring over her finger. It's a perfect fit and she stares at it for a second before kissing me again, slower this time.

"I love you, Santana. I can't wait to start our life together."

My heart swells at her sweet, soft voice telling me that she feels exactly how I do.

"I love you, too."

We lie together in the meadow for a little bit. Quinn won't put her hand down unless I wrap my fingers in hers and pull it down. I love the way the ring feels on her finger grasped between mine.

Before we get up to walk back we've agreed on a month and debated a few locations for our wedding. I've promised to help as much as I can with the planning while I'm away. She has admired her ring for the thousandth time. We've kissed for the hundredth time.

We can both hear the hushed din of her family waiting for us to return as we get closer to the House. By now I'm sure the Boys and Judy have told everyone that I've asked Quinn to marry me. I smile at my fiancée as we emerge and the Carlson family seems to hold its collective breath.

"I said YES!" Quinn shouts, holding our linked hands up in the air.

There is a loud cheer and then we're surrounded by a wave of family love that buoys me, lifting me somehow even higher than the ecstatic joy of being engaged to Quinn has taken me. I'm hugged over and over before Uncle Charlie quiets down the Carlson crowd.

"Now, as we all know, it is tradition to welcome our new family members with a shirt bearing their number once they've officially joined the family. We're going to break tradition just this one time since Santana will be returning to Afghanistan in less than a week," he announces, taking a shirt from someone behind him and holding it up to display the large "50" it bears. "It's been pretty clear to us for a while that Quinn wants to spend her life with you, Santana, so we had this shirt made with the rest of ours in anticipation of you joining the family eventually. We'd like to give it to you a little early, so that you can have it while you finish your tour overseas. Welcome to the family!"

Tears are rolling down my cheeks as I take my new shirt and hug Quinn's uncle fiercely. This family has embraced me in such unexpected, amazing ways, and it's just mind blowing that I get them along with the girl of my dreams.

The Boys start handing out beers and directing us towards the bonfire pit, and the engagement celebration is under way.

It doesn't end until the early morning hours.

* * *

"Look at me, baby."

Quinn's eyes slide slowly up to mine, and my heart contracts at the sadness I see in them.

"Please don't cry, Q. I'll e-mail as soon as I get somewhere with internet access, okay? We're halfway through, I'll be back before you know it."

It's never been harder to wear a brave face than it is right now. I know that if I cry neither of us will be able to stop. I shift my focus to the noise and bustle of the airport for a moment to regain control over my emotions before I look back at my favorite face.

Quinn is nodding in a way that tells me she doesn't really agree, but is trying to be brave too.

"I love you," she finally whispers.

"I love you too, more than _anything._ I can't wait to make you my wife, Quinn Fabray."

I finally get a smile out of her with that, and I lean down to capture it with a light kiss.

"Talk to you soon, babe." I hoist my heavy pack onto my back and give her a smile before I turn to walk inside the terminal.

"Santana."

I turn back to her and wait.

"You have to come back. Promise me."

Her beautiful mouth is twisted to the side as she fights back her tears.

I don't want to promise her something I can't control, but I know it's what she needs to hear from me to be alright with this. My throat is so tight I'm not sure how I'm breathing.

I nod first, trying to get enough control to speak to her without wavering.

"I promise," I say solidly, offering a light smile that doesn't match the heaviness I feel.

It takes all I have in me to turn from her and walk inside, praying to everything holy that I won't break that promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**QUINN**

I miss her so much it hurts.

Some days I can move, function, really _live_, as if she isn't elsewhere. Other days it feels like every breath, every moment is weighed down by the sheer magnitude of her absence.

I wait, but waiting doesn't seem like the right description. Waiting implies that I know the outcome, that a certain eventuality will inevitably be realized. But I _don't_ know. I don't know where she is, I don't know how she is, I don't know if…when…I don't know _when_ she'll be back.

I got an email, as she promised, when she arrived in Kuwait. It was simple and to the point. She was safe. She loved me. She'd call me when she got to her base in Afghanistan. And yet…

That was a month and a half ago. I haven't heard a word from her, and it is tearing me to pieces. If something, God I can't even think it, but if something _happened_ I'm not sure how I'd find out. Since we're not married, her parents would be notified, not me. I've never actually spoken to Santana's parents. I'm not sure if they'd even know how to reach me. I want to be confident that she planned for the possibilities, but I also don't want to believe that she even considered not coming home a possibility.

It's so much harder than I ever really thought it would be to be in love with someone who does what Santana does. Loving her is the easiest thing I've ever done. Dealing with her deployment is the hardest. It's a painful, heart-wrenching dichotomy. She loves her job, I know she does, but how many more times will I send her off to some foreign place to fight an invisible war? What if we decide to have children? I'm selfish enough to want her home with me even though I know that her particular set of skills are rare and important.

My mother has listened to me cry so many times that I feel like I can't call her again for a while. I know she wants to be there for me, but I've asked her and my sister to bear a load that I can't really share. There is nothing they can say or do, no number of times I could cry to them, no solution to be worked out that would fix this endless ache. Only my love, only one amazing, beautiful girl can fix this.

Every phone call, every e-mail, every facebook message…every single notification I get that someone is trying to reach me, I pray it's her. It will be, eventually. It has to be.

Santana likes to say "ruck up and shut up," whenever she talks about Soldiers whining, so that's what I'm trying to do. I know she wouldn't want me to mope around. She has told me more than once that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. I hope she's right. I want to prove her right. But damned if I don't feel like I'm crumbling.

I miss her so damn much it hurts.

* * *

Santana is lying next to me, but I know it's a dream. I see her every night lately. She's rarely ever this close to me though. Usually she's just out of reach, walking ahead of me and I can't catch up to her.

She's looking at me steadily, but suddenly sits up. I'm trying to follow her as she leaves the room. I think she's trying to answer the phone. It's ringing, somewhere. She's frantic, trying to get it before the ringing stops.

Ringing. It's ringing.

Shitmyfuckingphoneisringing.

I shoot up and snatch my phone from the charger, accepting the call immediately without looking at the number.

"Hello?"

Silence, then a garbled sound.

"Hello? Santana?"

"Qui-"

It's her! She's alive! I can barely hear her, but she's alive and I'm crying and oh my God she's on the phone.

"I'm here, baby, I'm here. Can you hear me?" I tell her, desperate to hear more from her.

"I hear you," she says, sounding far away and underwater, "I'm on a sat…ite…one…on't…uch time."

_I'm on a satellite phone, don't have much time._

"Okay, babe. Are you okay? I love you." I'm just rushing words out, hoping she can understand me better than I understand her.

I bite my lip during the long pause that follows.

"I'm okay," she sounds clear as a bell suddenly and I nearly squeal with joy. There's a long delay, but she's talking to me. "We lost everything. All of our internet capabilities were lost in a rocket attack. I'm so sorry Quinn. I love you too."

"It's okay, babe. I'm just so glad you're alright." My voice wavers from the crying, and I can actually feel the snot rolling out of my nose, but I couldn't give a fuck less. _She's okay_.

"I'm doing good, just miss you so much. I sent you a letter, snail mail style. Hopefully it gets there soon. Look, baby, I have to pass the phone on. Everyone needs to call their people and we've only got two phones. I love you so much though. I'll try to call again soon, and I'll write you, I promise."

_No, don't go._ I want to cry in her ear and beg her not to go, but I can't. She needs me to be tougher than that.

"Alright, baby. I love you so fucking much, Santana. I _miss_ you," I say with as much strength as I can muster.

"I miss and love you too, Quinn. Bye honey."

"Bye."

I bury my face in my hands and weep, torn between joy that she's okay and I heard her voice, and a desperate sadness that she had to go so soon. I cry and laugh at times, because at this point there are too many emotions for one person to know what to do with.

She's alive and she called me.

I miss her so goddamn much it hurts.

* * *

The letter comes two days later. I tear it open with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas morning, thrilled to be holding something that she had in her hands. My eyes tear when I see the distinctive all caps handwriting that I know so well. Santana told me once that she filled out so much paperwork in the Army that she just gave up using lowercase letters entirely.

_DEAR QUINN,_

_HOW WEIRD IS THIS? AN ACTUAL LETTER! I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG THIS WILL TAKE TO REACH YOU, BUT I HOPE I'LL GET TO CALL BEFORE IT DOES. LITERALLY THE DAY I GOT BACK WE TOOK A LOT OF ROCKET FIRE, IT WAS CRAZY. THEY TOOK OUT OUR INTERNET, ALL OF IT. I THINK WE MIGHT HAVE OUR SECRET NETWORK UP AGAIN, BUT I CAN'T USE THAT TO CALL YOU. I'M SO SORRY IF YOU'VE BEEN WORRIED. _

_I'M NOT SURE IF THEY ARE GOING TO PUT THE CIVILIAN INTERNET BACK UP AT ALL. WE'RE GETTING READY TO TEAR DOWN THIS COMBAT OUT POST ANYWAY, SO THEY MIGHT NOT. I HOPE THEY TEAR THIS DUMP DOWN SOONER RATHER THAN LATER SO WE CAN MOVE TO A BIGGER PLACE WITH MORE STUFF. THERE IS A FORWARD OPERATING BASE IN ANOTHER AREA OF OPERATIONS WITH A COFFEE BEAN AND A REAL CHOW HALL! IF I MOVED THERE I'D PROBABLY BE ABLE TO CALL YOU ALL THE TIME, BUT I'M TRYING NOT TO GET MY HOPES UP TOO MUCH. IT'S EASIER TO DEAL WHEN YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO LIVE IN A SHITHOLE DUMP AND THEY SURPRISE YOU WITH SOMETHING NICER, RATHER THAN HOPE FOR SOMETHING GOOD AND BE DISAPPOINTED. THE ARMY HAS A MAGICAL WAY OF SCREWING YOU HARDER THAN YOU'VE EVER BEEN SCREWED, SO MINIMAL EXPECTATION IS FOR THE BEST. SORRY IF THAT SOUNDS NEGATIVE, IT JUST REALLY SUCKS OUT HERE WITHOUT BEING ABLE TO TALK TO YOU._

_HOW ARE THINGS BACK HOME? SAY HI TO YOUR FAMILY FOR ME. ACTUALLY, THAT REMINDS ME, I SAW MY DAD ON MY WAY THROUGH BAGRAM AIRFIELD. HE'S LOOKING FORWARD TO MEETING YOU. I SHOWED HIM YOUR PICTURE AND HE ASKED ME IF YOU'RE A MODEL OR AN ACTRESS OR SOMETHING. IMAGINE THAT, SOMEONE ELSE THINKS YOU ARE TOO GORGEOUS FOR REAL LIFE…_

_ANYWAY, I MISS YOU SO MUCH, QUINN. I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERY SINGLE DAY. I HOPE YOU ARE DOING ALRIGHT. BE BRAVE FOR ME, BEAUTIFUL._

_ALL MY LOVE-  
__SANTANA_

I read the letter over and over again, until I've memorized most of it. I find myself tracing her blocky handwriting with my finger, imagining her huddled in an armored truck or somewhere on the side of a mountain, writing to me. I've seen pictures of her from other deployments and from the beginning of this one, so I see her pretty clearly in my mind's eye—

Her uniform is faded from the sun and the dirt permanently rubbed into it. She's wearing her helmet, which she tells me they call a Kevlar after the stuff it's made of. She's got body armor on, with all sorts of stuff attached to it. Santana pointed out to me what all of it is, but I don't remember what each thing is called. (I just remember the magazines, because I thought that was a weird thing to be carrying, until she explained that a "magazine" in the military is what holds their bullets, not something they read.) She's wearing gloves. In every picture I see, she's got tan gloves on. Oakley sunglasses, which she tells me are capable of saving someone's eyesight in a blast. I thought that was impressive. Finally, I see Santana's face. Her face is tanned and dirty, and she wears this indescribable half smile. It's the kind of smile that indicates someone who is completely at ease in their world.

Santana is the most badass human being I can imagine, but she doesn't seem to think anything of it. Sometimes it's hard, when people ask about her, not to brag. This is a woman who has voluntarily put herself on the front lines of the fight, rather than do some administrative job or stay on the base. She is so selfless and brave, it's actually kind of terrifying. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Santana will risk her life for other Soldiers. It's basically what she does on a daily basis.

Sometimes I have to remind myself of what she's doing when I start to feel sorry for myself. It sucks so bad to miss her so much, but she misses me just as much. And on top of that she has to deal with rocket attacks and firefights and IEDs and God only knows what else. Santana is my hero, bottom line.

I sit down and write a long letter back to her, carefully transcribing her address onto the back of the envelope when I'm done. It's crazy to think that in this world of interconnectivity and instantaneous communication, we've been reduced to writing letters as our only real means of speaking. I'm okay with that, as long as Santana is always on the other end.

I miss her so fucking much it hurts.

* * *

**SANTANA**

"Puckerman, get your fucking ass down! What the fuck are you trying to do? Keep your head down."

I'm tired, so fucking tired.

"Oh I'm sorry, I thought you wanted some more magazines. I could just take these to someone else though, if you don't need bullets to kill the bad guys."

"Don't be a fucking smartass. Give me four. Put the others right here behind this rock so we can reload faster."

"Think we'll get another wave?"

I glare at this idiot for a minute before I get my sharp tongue under control.

"Yeah man, we're going to get more. They're calling in the birds but…I don't know, the choppers are coming from a ways off and won't have long overhead before they have to refuel. I just want to make sure we get the wounded out."

"Shit."

Yeah, shit is right. This fucking deployment sucks. Everything about it has just been worse than any other I've been through. It's manageable, like all things are, but at every single turn there is a setback. This firefight has been going on for three hours. It doesn't seem like we can knock enough of these assholes down to stop them from coming again, and they will kill every last person in the village to our south if we can't fight them off. The Taliban doesn't take kindly to Afghans who are friendly to US forces. They don't actually take kindly to anyone who won't cower beneath their heel.

I hear the distinctive snap of a bullet flying over my head and I know it's back on. One by one the guns on our end begin to return fire.

Puckerman and I have a good position, looking down the mountain, protecting the flank. Normally I'd be somewhere in the middle of our defensive circle, guiding in the medical evacuation birds or waiting for someone to need me, but this fight is a shit mess, and we need every weapon we can use.

There's movement below us and I recognize the telltale pop of a grenade nearby. I return fire first, carefully squeezing the trigger so as not to waste our dwindling ammunition.

_9…10…11, 12…13…_

I count each round in my head so that I won't go empty unexpectedly. Puckerman takes over while I slouch down and unhook my pistol, just in case.

There's a snap against the rock above my head and pieces of shale rain down on me. Instead of popping back up where I was, I roll left and fire a heavy volley down the mountain to get those bastards to duck.

_14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20…21, 22…23, 24…25, 26…_

"I need to reload," I shout at Puck and pops back up to take over for me.

_27, 28, 29, 30_

I roll back over and change my magazines as fast as I can.

_1, 2…3, 4…_

"MEDIC!" Someone is screaming behind me. "MEDIC!"

I look at Puck for a second.

"GO Lopez! I'm good here. GO!"

_FUCK._

I snatch up my aid bag and sprint, keeping my body as low as possible. The trees around me are splintering from bullets hitting them, but I don't stop. I shouldn't be able to move this fast. My legs should be quitting, my lungs should be screaming, but I can't feel anything. I run to the sound of the yelling and drop to my knees next to a scared sergeant who is bleeding profusely from his leg. I know him. Evans. _Fuck_.

I push my hands as hard as I can against his wound and look him in the eye.

"Listen to me. I need you to start talking to me. Name, rank, last 4, blood type. Keep telling me while I work on you so that I don't forget."

All of the things I just asked him to repeat over and over are actually sewn on to his helmet, I just need him focused on something other than the fact that at this particular moment he is bleeding out. He starts rattling off this meaningless information while I assess his wounds.

Entry, exit. The exit is nasty, too. Bigger than the entry. I have to tourniquet him, as much as I don't want to risk having this kid lose his leg, his femoral is nicked and I have no choice.

I quickly apply pressure dressings first, to cover his open wounds and hopefully prevent all sorts of nastiness from getting in there. Then I grab the tourniquet off of his kit.

"Sergeant Evans, Samuel. 8170. A-positive. Sergeant Evans, Sam...hey, is that my tourniquet?"

I ignore him as I slide it up his leg, a few inches over the wound. If we don't get him out of here quickly he'll lose his entire left leg. He screams as I ratchet it down tightly. I look up to see where I can move him that is safer.

"Am I going to lose my leg?"

I see a spot, up a little ways that has better cover, but it's going to suck to get him up there. I reach down and unhook the dead weight on his kit, instead snapping it onto mine.

"Seriously, Doc, am I going to lose my leg?"

I pause for a fraction of a second and look him in the eye.

"No."

I'm back to work, putting a splint under his leg and tying it down, too. Bark rains down on us as the tree next to us takes a bunch of rounds.

I swing my weapon up and begin firing on the muzzle flashes I can see as I position myself between Evans and the incoming gunfire.

_5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10_

My thumb clicks the safety on my rifle and my rounds start coming out in threes.

_11, 14, 17, 20, 23_

I pause for a second, still knelt down. I don't know if I've killed any of them or all of them, all I know is that we need to move.

I turn and grab Evans' body armor by the shoulder, hoisting him cleanly to a sitting position. He seems to recognize my urgency and does all he can to help me pull him up. He's over my shoulder in a second and I grab his rifle as I stand up and start running as hard as my legs will carry me.

30 meters.

_Fuck._

25 meters.

_FUCK._

The crescendo of gunfire is mind blowing.

15 meters.

Four Soldiers appear before me and sprint past us, laying an unholy amount of gunfire down the mountain. I trudge the last few meters and drop Evans as carefully as humanly possible behind a huge rock.

"How are we doing, Sam?"

He's wide eyed and clearly overwhelmed, but he cracks a smile with his abnormally large mouth, his fishy lips cracked from the sun.

"Alright, alright, alright," he says in a Matthew McConaughey voice.

I shake my head and start laughing hard. It wouldn't even be that funny, except that this jackass is _shot through the leg_ and still doing impressions. I laugh the entire time I'm hooking him up to an IV to keep his blood pressure up.

My laughter ceases as soon as I hear the beautiful sound of rotary wings above my head. The cavalry has arrived. Now that I have a minute I unsnap the stretcher that's folded down in my aid bag and get some of the guys that ran past us with guns blazing to help me carry him to the makeshift landing zone.

We guide the helicopters down and then run forward carrying Evans on the stretcher, the wind from the blades whipping us in the face. He grabs my hand after I hand off his IV to the flight medic, nodding a thank you. I give him a short nod and run away from the chopper so that it can go.

Before it can take off four guys run up with a bodybag and load it inside as well, right next to Evans. I'm pissed at first, because it's fucked up to put a dead guy next to a guy that's still fighting, but I know in my heart that the most important thing is that everybody, dead or alive, gets off this mountain.

I turn to the team of guys that were carrying the body when they run back to where we are.

"Who was the KIA?" I ask.

"Specialist Puckerman."

I nod, fighting the urge to scream, or cry, or fall to my knees and do both.

"I'm sorry, brother," I whisper as I watch the helicopters fly off.

* * *

My bags are packed. Most of our shit has already been sent back to the States in containers. We only have about three weeks left in this shithole country and then we'll be flying home.

I've never been more scared in my life.

It's the weirdest thing in the world, but I'm terrified. I do fine outside of the gates. I can do my job, I can deal with gunfire, I'm never really afraid out there.

But in here…it's fucking awful. There's no control. I don't live or die based on how well I handle my weapon, or how well my brothers do their jobs. I live or die based on a math equation that varies every single time a rocket is fired. Trajectory, speed, angle. All unknowns. A problem cannot be solved with all unknown factors. I have a stupid Mean Girls quote stuck in my head all the time.

"The limit does not exist."

I don't know why I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe because it pisses me off that the answer to the problem is a non-answer. I just keep living. I go to the gym, I eat in our mess tent, I walk to the shower trailers, and I sleep in a fucking plywood building. Any moment, any day, any hour, those assholes could launch a lucky ass rocket that just happens to land on my forehead, or at least close enough that my body is destroyed by the blast or fragmentation. It's a total crapshoot.

What's crazy is that this has been true literally the entire time I've lived here, and yet it only bothers me now. We're so damn close to going home. I'm so damn close to holding Quinn, to kissing her, that it feels like an impossibility. Like there has to be _something_ that prevents me from reaching her.

It's fucking terrifying.

I miss Quinn.

* * *

**QUINN**

Any day now, she'll be home.

The dates keep changing, but any day I'll get the call saying what time she'll be on the ground. I'm so excited it's hard to function at work. It's pretty hard to function at all, actually.

My phone is buzzing in my pocket, so I excuse myself from lunch with my coworkers to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hi! This is Debbie Anderson from the Family Readiness Group. Is this Quinn Fabray?"

"Yes, this is she."

"Great! You are listed as the contact for Staff Sergeant Santana Lopez with 146th Medical Detachment, and I'm calling to inform you that her unit will be arriving back at Fort Stewart at 2300 tonight."

"2300?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, military wife, military time. That's 11 o'clock pm."

"So Santana will be home at 11 pm…_tonight_?"

"That's correct, dear."

"Great! Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome, bye now."

I end the call and return to my coworkers, a broad grin on my face.

Tommy, a handsome guy whose exact job I can never seem to remember, notices me first.

"What's got you so excited? Find out when Santana's coming home?" he asks playfully. My entire office is well aware of my fiancée's impending return from Afghanistan.

I bite my lip and nod.

"So?" All eyes are on me.

"Tonight! She'll be home tonight!"

* * *

I'm waiting, impatiently. It's almost midnight, and we've been informed that the flight has landed, but that our Soldiers are in-processing.

An older guy who looks vaguely important steps up to a microphone.

"Good evening, I am Colonel Hall, and I'd like to welcome you all to the welcome home ceremony for 146th Medical Detachment. Your Soldiers will march in shortly, we'll say a few words, and then they'll be released to be with you again. I recognize that I'm the only thing standing in the way of a lot of long awaited reunions, so I promise to keep it short."

Some music starts up and all eyes turn to the entrance as a bunch of travel weary Soldiers march in smartly. They look exhausted, but they move in perfect synchronization.

My gaze travels from face to face until I see her and my heart stops. She stands stiffly at attention, her eyes straight forward until seemingly by magic they slide directly to mine. She winks and then looks straight ahead again.

I can't even hear what the old guy is saying. I'm just plotting routes to get to my fiancée as quickly as possible.

"…so without further ado. Company! Atten-tion! Fall out!"

I'm on my feet and weaving between couples and families reuniting, heading in the general direction of where she was standing. All at once I see her, smiling, waiting for me exactly where I saw her.

I jog the last few steps and jump into her arms, wrapping my legs around her waist and kissing her soundly. She smiles into the kiss, and it's just…_everything._

She's kissing me. She's home. _Hallelujah._

I put my feet on the ground again and just hold her close to me. She feels so tiny, thinner than when I last saw her. Her slight frame is shaking.

I've never seen Santana cry before.

"I love you so much, baby," I murmur into her ear, "welcome back."

"I love you too. God, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you," she whispers back.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This particular chapter was difficult to write, but I decided that to write an honest portrayal of this relationship, it needed to be written. I hope I did it justice.**

**A/N 2: I listened to the song "Talk to Me" by Lauren Aquilina over and over as I wrote Quinn's perspective. It captures perfectly what I imagine Quinn is feeling throughout this chapter. Check it out if you get a chance.**

* * *

**SANTANA**

Quinn is flushed, her breath comes out in quick, shallow pants. We're both moving slowly, our fingers buried deeply inside of one another. I lean forward and kiss her, my stomach clenching yet again when I realize I can still taste myself on her tongue. Quinn has a brilliantly talented mouth. Not long ago she had her lips wrapped around my clit and two fingers inside of me, making my body arch with the light suction she applied until I finally came, my mind instantly blanking from the intensity of my orgasm. It's amazing really that I can even handle her touching me again, but she is positioning her hand so as to carefully avoid stimulating my clit and her fingertips keep grazing over the spot inside of me that steals my breath.

The intimacy of this moment is overwhelming. Quinn is all I can see or feel, and I'm grateful, so very grateful, that she is such an amazing, strong woman. She stands by me even as I struggle to be the person I was before Afghanistan. I wish I knew how to tell her. Instead, I use these moments to try desperately to show her what she means to me, how much I love her, that I need her more than anything else on earth.

We move in rhythm, my left hand in her and her right in me. The pace is picked up wordlessly, and we cant our hips to meet each other's thrusts. Quinn holds my eyes with her own until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore. I have to show her what I can't say.

Our orgasms come in quick succession, and I keep my hand in place as I feel the pulsing inside of my lover slow and weaken until it stops. I sigh when I feel her fingers slip out of me, and I reluctantly follow suit. My eyes open then, and I find Quinn looking at me with an adoration and concern that threaten to stop my heart. She cups my face with her left hand and brings her mouth to mine, gently caressing my lips with hers.

She knows. She knows that everything inside of me is wrong, even though I try to hide it from her. She knows that I'm trying. She knows that I love her more than my own life.

Quinn pulls me close to her and brings my head to her chest. I can hear her heart, erratically thumping away. For a second I imagine what she must feel in these moments. Does she feel like this is the only time I'm me? Does she let go of it all and just let herself feel my love? Does she miss the person I used to be? I stop thinking about it, because I know she must miss that version of me. Hell, _I_ miss that version of me.

The guilt. Always the guilt. I'm fighting it, because I'm still here in my moment with the love of my life, but soon the guilt will crush me once more until I go numb. I bite my lip to push back the tears that threaten whenever I let myself feel things.

_I'm sorry, Quinn. I'm trying. I promise._

* * *

**QUINN**

Santana has been back in the States for just over 90 days. The Army tracks that, they count up the months you've been home so that they know when they can send you back. It's called "dwell time" and Santana officially has three months of it. After twelve they can send her back without any waivers. Anything sooner and she has to voluntarily waive her dwell time to be able to go.

I'm afraid she'll go back. I'm afraid she'll volunteer, because sometimes being overseas is easier than dealing with being home. I can see her struggling, I can feel her confusion and her sadness and her depression. It didn't happen right away, but this change has slowly crept into my fiancée's eyes, a change that I cannot understand or chase away for long. I know she doesn't want me to see it, and I know she's angry at herself for feeling it, but it's there and it's scary.

Sometimes I think back to when I met Santana, how her vivacious personality and subdued confidence drew me to her. She has such expressive, warm eyes, and they shone with playful mirth as we flirted with one another. I so miss that girl, she seemed so sure of herself and her place in this world. It pains my heart to see the light dimmed in those beautiful brown eyes.

The first three weeks she was home were a blur of kisses, sex, take out dinners, long showers…really whatever it took to stay as close as possible to each other. Santana kept her hand firmly entwined with mine whenever she could. She would smile randomly at me, as if just looking at me made her happy. When I ran out of vacation days and had to head back to Jacksonville, Santana pulled me tightly to her and whispered, "Stay. I'll take care of you. Just please stay."

So I went home and gave my two weeks notice, then I moved up to Savannah to live with my future wife as soon as it was up. Even then, I didn't see it right away, the change. It took another week before I saw the first sign that the love of my life was in the midst of an internal battle that I couldn't possibly understand.

It was innocuous enough, that first sign. I reasoned it away easily, because that's what you do when the strongest woman you know promises that she's fine, that it was just a bad moment. Somewhere inside though, I think I knew. Watching Santana's knuckles turn white with the intensity of her grip on the shopping cart, the way her neck flushed and sweat beaded on her forehead, I could literally see her fighting against the discomfort that was overtaking her. When we got to her truck I asked if she was okay, and Santana explained that the crowd made her feel claustrophobic. She smiled at me and gave me a kiss, reassuring me that her reaction was pretty normal for someone who just came back from Afghanistan, and that it would pass with a little bit of time.

Less than a week later I woke up to Santana sobbing into her pillow. I was shocked, if not a little bit horrified. I asked, then begged, her to tell me what was wrong but she just shook her head and buried her face in my neck. She cried until she fell asleep, but didn't acknowledge that anything was amiss the next morning, simply telling me it was "just a rough night." Her dismissive shrug essentially told me that she had said everything she was going to say. It was the last time Santana stayed in bed for the entire night. That was when I started to really _look_. And once I did that, I finally began to _see. _

Decisions seem harder for my usually decisive other half, as if the sheer number of options are overwhelming for her. Suddenly I find her looking to me for final input on everything, small or big. Santana hasn't gotten any better dealing with crowds either, she tenses up if anyone unfamiliar encroaches on her personal space, as if her fight or flight instincts have gone into overdrive. She's exceedingly uncomfortable if she doesn't have either an escape route nearby or a weapon handy. Santana has a concealed carry permit, which has been a blessing in a way because we'd never leave the house if she couldn't carry a gun. When we first met she'd usually just have one in her truck, but now it's almost always in a holster somewhere on her body. This particular change we _have_ discussed, because my fiancée insisted that I learn how to safely handle each of the guns she owns once I moved in with her. Only recently have I even thought to worry about Santana's access to guns in combination with her depression. I don't _think_ she is suicidal, but now that the fear has crept up on me I feel like I'm always on edge. I check and re-check that the guns are in their normal places, and I watch San like a hawk whenever she starts drinking. It's stressful, but actually not even what I worry about most really.

Santana doesn't sleep. She thinks I don't know that, but I started setting alarms in the night to check on her. Or I'll pretend to be asleep and see how long it takes Santana to leave our bed. She always does eventually. Sometimes she goes to the living room and watches TV. Sometimes she gets dressed and goes running. More often than not I find her with the TV on mute, writing in a notebook with an array of empty bottles in front of her. I haven't said anything, but the words sit on the tip of my tongue every time I look into her tired eyes or find her napping fitfully when the exhaustion finally overtakes her.

Just as sleep has slipped away from her, she has begun to slip away from me. She tries, God she's trying so fucking hard, but her absence has become more pronounced with each passing day. The only time it feels like she is really with me is when we're making love. It's then that she looks into my eyes, that she lets me see her, that she seems to beat the darkness inside of her. I'm afraid that this last reprieve will slip away as the silence overtakes our home. Talking to Santana is…difficult. She gives me her opinion on wedding stuff, she answers every question I ask about work, she updates me on the recovery of one of the Soldiers whose life she saved. Santana answers me, but her voice is empty and flat. We don't talk about the change. I tried once or twice, but she refused outright, insisting she is fine.

Even still, up until the last week or so, we have managed. I know that San loves me, I can feel it in her touch, and I can see it in the private war she's fighting. She wants to protect me from herself, from whatever is happening inside of her. But now…we're at a precipice. Something has to change or we're both going to fall over the edge and lose everything. Up until now I've generally ignored the drinking, justified the sixth and seventh beers or the fourth glass of wine, accepted that this was something Santana needed to feel better, and honestly, after a few drinks she was more herself, so I let her be.

Watching her now, opening yet another beer despite the fact that she is swaying on her feet and her eyes are glazed over, it's impossible to ignore the fact that this is only getting worse. She smiles at me as she pops the top and tosses it on the coffee table. She drops heavily on the couch next to me and leans on my shoulder, snuggling close to me. I put my arm over her shoulder, but keep my eyes trained on the book that I haven't read a word of because I've been surreptitiously watching Santana get drunk alone. She opened the first bottle within 3 minutes of walking in the front door from work, not even pausing to take off her boots. Since then, she has not gone more than a minute or two without a drink in her hand, even taking a fresh beer with her into the shower.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, beautiful," she says with just a slight hint of a slur. The fact that she can still speak even remotely clearly is almost the most disturbing thing about this picture. She has had at least seven beers already, maybe eight. For someone her size, she should be completely wrecked. Her tolerance for alcohol is scary, especially considering she just spent a year essentially dry.

_How have I ignored this for so long?_

"Am I? Sorry, honey, I've just been thinking," I reply lightly. I don't want to fight with her, I hate that I already know she's going to be defensive and angry if I say anything.

"Thinking? 'Bout what?"

I sigh and put my book down. I know she only _sounds_ sober. Now is not the time to start this discussion, but I fail to keep the sadness out of my voice when I answer her.

"Nothing, babe. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

Santana is quiet at first, then sits up and turns to look at me, her eyes narrowed. "If it's 'nothing' then why do we need to talk about it tomorrow?"

I can see in a glance that her body has tensed up and she is looking at me with a mixture of apprehension and accusation. My silence in response doesn't help, and her chest seems to be heaving from the force of her breathing. We look at each other for a long moment before she looks away, and I know she knows what's on my mind.

"Quinn, I'm _fine_, okay? I just need a little bit of time to get my feet back under me, that's all. You don't need to worry."

My eyes close at her insistence that she is fine. She isn't fine. We aren't fine. _THIS_ isn't fine. When I finally look at her again, the full weight of my helplessness falls on my shoulders and I fight to keep tears from falling.

"You're not fine, San. You are struggling with something, something really big, but I can't help you if you won't talk to me, baby. I really want to understand, I really want to be there for you." The words tumble out of my mouth as if I can no longer hold them back. I'm trying hard to be calm, but I feel so scared inside.

Santana's mouth opens and then closes, her jaw clenching as she looks up at the ceiling. Her voice is a whisper when she finally speaks. "There are some things that can't really be explained. I can't explain this. But I'm okay, really I am. I just need time."

For a moment I feel hopeful that she's going to acknowledge that this is happening, but once again she returns to the mantra that she's 'okay.' All at once I decide that I can't let this go another minute. I lean forward and take her beer from her hands, placing it on a coaster before taking her hands in mine. My gaze stays fixed on our joined hands until another wave of courage hits me and I look at my favorite face in the world.

"Santana, listen to me. You aren't okay. I'm not okay, either. Baby, _we are not okay_. We're surviving, not living. And I know, God I know, that you are trying so hard, I see that you are trying, but we're drowning. We're drowning in alcohol and depression and silence. I need you to talk to me. I'm begging you, please, just talk to _someone_ about what's going on with you."

Dark brown eyes study me for a long moment, holding my eyes as a slender tan hand reaches out and picks up the beer on the coffee table. Santana's eyes glint with defiance as she takes a long sip from her drink and then stands up. She looks down at me and then turns to walk away, disappearing into the kitchen without a word. Any other night and I would let it go, but not tonight. I'm tired. I'm done pretending that everything is great. I follow her into the kitchen and stand in the doorway.

"So that's it? You're just going to walk away from me like that? Because let me tell you, San, the girl I fell in love with wouldn't get up and ignore me when I'm clearly hurting over this. The girl I fell in love with-"

Santana slams her beer down with enough force to make me jump, and my eyes flash to her hands gripping the counter top as if it will hold her back.

"THE GIRL YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH IS **DEAD**, QUINN. She's somewhere on a mountain in a dirty, backwards country, wishing she could come home. But she CAN'T, because she's fucking DEAD, just like Noah, just like so many of her brothers and sisters. I am all that is left of her, and I'm doing my fucking best here. You don't have any idea what you are asking, but I am telling you, I _promise _you, that you don't want to know any of this shit. You don't want to hear this, okay? So please just let it go."

I'm shocked, to say the least. Santana has never raised her voice at me like that. Even she looks taken aback by her outburst, but I'm not sure if it's because she yelled at me or because she admitted things to me that she didn't intend to. This is the most she has said to me about whatever it is she struggles with, and my heart breaks when she tells me that she's dead. It would seem so crazy, except that I've seen her eyes and a part of me believes her. I swallow down the sob that rises in my chest and take a slow breath.

"I can't, Santana. I can't let it go, because it's pulling you away from me. You aren't dead, San. You aren't! I know you're hurting and you're maybe a bit lost right now, but you are still here, baby. And I want to be here with you, not just sitting here watching you try to drink away whatever is wrong. Please let me try to help you."

Santana is shaking her head and it's simultaneously infuriating and heartbreaking. I can't watch this woman destroy herself. I love her too goddamn much to watch her surrender to her demons.

"You are blowing this out of proportion, Quinn. Have I missed a single day of work? Do I drive drunk or become unmanageable? No. So I like to have a couple of drinks after work because it helps me relax. The bills get paid on time, the wedding is being planned, we're here together. What else do you want?"

I scoff in complete disbelief. Santana's glassy red eyes narrow, but I just stare right back. She's shifted back to completely ignoring the real issue, choosing instead to focus on the drinking aspect. I'm incredulous.

"That's…Santana, what the hell does any of that even mean? The bills get paid on time? _The fucking bills get paid on time_?! You think that somehow, because we pay our bills, we're doing okay? Let me tell you something, we are _NOT_ here together. _I'm _planning a wedding to someone who can't spend an entire night in bed with me, but refuses to tell me why. Just because you are _functioning_ doesn't mean you are _okay_. What I _want_ is for you to talk to me. I know you think I don't want to know, and maybe there are a thousand things that I really don't want to hear, but I will bear that burden because _I love you_. I can't LIVE like this, Santana. I can't spend the rest of my life worrying, hoping you'll eventually come back to me. I am _begging _you, please get some help."

Santana stares at her feet, clearly my words have made an impact this time. My heart sinks when she picks up her head and sets her jaw. Her hands still grip the counter tightly.

"I'm going to bed. You were right, we should talk about this tomorrow," she finally says, her voice eerily calm. I watch her turn and dump the rest of her beer in the sink as she stares me down with her eyebrow cocked.

I feel frozen, uncertain of the best move now. She's not really fighting back anymore. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. "Please don't walk away from me right now," I manage.

The proud, strong women that I admire so much looks utterly destroyed with those words, her front suddenly evaporated to show the horrible pain she is in.

"I don't want to hurt you, Quinn." It's a whisper, and it terrifies me. Hurt me how? Physically? Emotionally? Mentally?

"You won't," I say with a confidence I don't have, taking a step forward to show her that I'm not afraid.

A quick sob escapes Santana's body. "I already am. Look at us, Q. I'm fucked up and dragging you down, too. I can't do that to you anymore."

Something about the way she speaks tells me that she's not talking about going to get help to address the problem. She's talking about leaving me because she thinks it will be better for me.

_Jesus Christ, no._

"You said it yourself. You can't live like this, Quinn. I refuse to be the reason you are unhappy," she elaborates into the shocked silence I can't fill with words. It wakes me up to what she's saying though, and I shake my head vehemently.

I'm surprised by the firm, calm voice that comes out of my mouth despite my panic. "No. I'm not leaving you, and you aren't leaving me, either. You aren't fucked up. You're dealing with normal things for someone who just came back from war, but you don't have to do it alone. I love you, baby. We might not have made our vows yet, but I love you in sickness and in health, forever. So we're going to need to find another solution."

Santana stares at me, the war in her eyes evident. She wants to fight for me, but the demons tell her that she can't, that she's crazy, that she's wrong or bad or evil. I'm not sure what exactly her demons say, but I know I won't let them have her without a fight. I step even closer to her, within arm's reach.

"San, I know you love me. So please, for me, don't give up. Whatever you do, don't give up. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You taught me to be brave and face my fears. Well, we're going to be brave together now, and we're going to face this. You and I together, Santana Lopez, we can do _anything_. Please fight this with me."

It's a flash in her eyes that brings the slightest smile to my face. I see my Santana there, looking at me resolutely. The nod is nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable. I reach out for her and pull her into my arms, relieved when she wraps her arms around me and holds me close. We're both crying, but it feels like a good thing.

For the first time in a long while, I feel hopeful.

* * *

**SANTANA**

The cold sweat on my skin results in goosebumps all over my body, the tiny hairs on my body standing straight up. I swallow a sob and gasp raggedly, trying to bring my breathing under control. I stare wildly at the ceiling, my eyes wide. My heightened senses make everything feel dangerous, like something terrible is on the cusp of occurring if I don't catch the signs.

I've been avoiding my dreams with exhaustion and alcohol, but tonight I came to bed with Quinn and allowed myself to drift off next to her, sobered considerably by the conversation and the realization that I was devastating the only person I want to spend my entire life with. My punishment for going to sleep instead of passing out is my dreams.

Noah Puckerman speaks to me sometimes. Usually he's already dead, but he asks me why I left him to fight alone, his grayish eyes look empty but accusatory. Sometimes it's just that I can't get my weapon to work. The bad guys are coming, they're right there, but my rifle is jammed or I don't have the strength in my finger to pull the trigger. Tonight it was an explosion that blinded me, but I could hear everyone calling for a medic. I'm trying to go to voices and help them but I can't see. One by one the voices fade out because I don't get to them in time. The last voice to fade out is Quinn's. I know it's her because she says "Save me, San. Please. I'm dying." No one else calls me San. I woke up as soon as I felt her die, because in my dream it's just a thing I know. Quinn is dead, because I couldn't save her.

I feel a strong urge to run from this room without looking at her. I know she isn't dead, I can hear her steady breathing, but I'm afraid that if I look I'll find wounds. I can't resist though, I have to be sure she is okay, so I turn my head and look.

Her face is angelic, her lips slightly parted as she breathes evenly. There isn't a mark on her, she's as perfect as ever, and I let out a long sigh of relief.

I still want to run away though, like I've been doing for weeks, ever since the first horrible nightmare caught up with me. My body seems to be pulling me back down though, because even as I think about escaping, my eyes stay fixed on Quinn's face. Running isn't working. And she knows, anyway. I'm not hiding anything from her. If anything, I'm failing her every time I leave our bed.

My hand moves of its own accord, lifting to my fiancée's perfect face and tucking her hair back, then resting on her cheek until she begins to stir. She seems to pop awake suddenly rather than slowly come around, her eyes quickly find mine and she sits up.

"What is it, baby?" she whispers, her hands reaching for mine.

I take a deep breath. It's hard to show her this weakness, but I remind myself that she's suffering anyway. "I had a dream. It was really bad," I tell her finally, unsure how much I should tell her.

Quinn nods and says, "I'm sorry honey. Do you want to tell me about it? You don't have to right now if you don't want to."

I know I can't tell her right now without breaking down, so I just scoot closer to her. "Can you just hold me? I just want to feel you right here."

I look away from her eyes, fighting the hot burning of shame that comes at how weak I feel, but Quinn catches my chin and brings my face up so that we're looking at each other when she tells me firmly, "I will always hold you. You are safe here with me, San."

My heart constricts at the use of my nickname. "_Save me, San. Please. I'm dying._"

But she's not dying. She's here, and she's alive and well. She's fighting for me.

I nod and lean forward to kiss her gently before turning to let her wrap her arms around me and press our bodies closer together. I'm enveloped by her scent and her soft skin. A smile forms on my lips when she gently kisses the skin just below my ear, and I close my eyes to welcome sleep once again.

It isn't a dreamless sleep. I wake up twice more, terrified. But Quinn wakes up with me, her arms still around me. She tightens her hold when she feels me jerk awake, holding me close to her until I can close my eyes again.

I make a promise to myself before drifting off to sleep for the last time. Tomorrow I will tell Quinn something, one of the many things I've kept hidden from her since I came home. I don't know what I'll say exactly. Maybe I'll be strong enough to tell her more than just one thing. All I know is that I can't lose her, and if saving us means talking, I have to find a way to do it. I can't ask her to spend the rest of our lives like this, both of us so unhappy.

* * *

**QUINN**

I wake up to Santana's lips on my skin for the first time in ages. I don't move right away because I don't want her to stop, my heart soaring as she kisses my fingertips, the inside of my wrist, the crook of my elbow. She takes her time placing feather light kisses along my collarbone, then presses her lips to my throat, my jaw, my cheek, my forehead.

I can feel the smile in her kiss, and I know that she knows I'm awake. I slowly open my eyes and smile at this girl with clear eyes above me, who looks exactly like the Santana of old. For the moment she looks so carefree and _young_ again.

"Good morning, beautiful," she says, one corner of her mouth twitched upwards and her eyes soft with affection.

"Hi, baby," I respond, arching my back as I stretch out my sleepy muscles. "Shouldn't you be at PT?"

Santana smiles fully and leans down to kiss me.

"Yes, I should be, but I called the First Sergeant and explained that I needed to go in to see mental health today. And that I wanted to be here when you woke up after our conversation last night. He agreed, so I'm here with you."

Dark eyes study my reaction to this news carefully. My beautiful girl looks nervous, but brave. Her vulnerability reaches deep within me and tears spring to my eyes immediately as I put my arms out to her. She doesn't hesitate, lying half on top of me and burying her face in my neck in one smooth motion.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice heavy with emotion. Relief washes over and through me, touching every nerve in my body. The heavy tension I've felt in my body is released, if only for the moment. We have a long way to go, but this is a huge moment for us both.

Santana picks herself up to look at me. "No, thank _you_. I couldn't do this without you. I'm so sorry for how things have been, but it's going to get better, okay?"

I shake my head quickly. "Don't apologize, it's not your fault. I know this isn't easy, but I do know it will get better. Honestly, it kind of already has," I tell her, squeezing my arms a little tighter.

She kisses me then, a tender touching of lips that slowly transforms into a passionate kiss that threatens to set fire to my body. When we break the kiss, Santana leans her forehead against mine in a gesture I recognize as her trying to slow herself down and gain control. After a moment she leans back and grins at me before climbing off of me and the bed.

I try not to pout when I ask her where she's going.

"We need to talk," she says with a slight smile and a shrug, as if her offering to talk with me is the easiest thing in the world. I know it's not, I know this is hard for her, and I love her so much more because of it.

I climb out of bed and follow her to the kitchen, where the coffee is already made and Santana is pulling out bowls of fruit from the fridge for us. I sit down at the table, smiling when she bends over to kiss the top of my head as she puts the food down in front of me, then sits down as well. We sip our coffee quietly for a moment, hers black, mine with just the right amount of milk and no sugar.

Santana regards me as if she's assessing my readiness for whatever she has to say. I keep my eyes on her and wait, nervous to hear what is torturing her so much, but also ready to listen to her for as long as she wants to talk. Brown eyes close for a second as Santana draws a long breath, then open and find mine steadily.

"I guess I should start with Noah Puckerman. Everything up to him was going fine. We'd had a lot of guys wounded, but he was our first KIA. I…I was the last person to speak to him. I left his side when Sam Evans got wounded, do you remember Sam?"

I nod, because of course I do. Santana received a Bronze Star for Valor for her actions to save him during a firefight. I held her hand as his wife thanked her for saving his life at the ceremony. He was standing next to her, holding his son, and I remember squeezing San's hand as I looked into that little boy's dark eyes. She saved his daddy. I was so proud.

"Well, that first dream, the first time I woke up in the night, was about them. Sam with his leg bleeding, and Puck…he was shot in the head. They uh…they were telling me to, um…choose…which of them got to live."

I close my eyes at the ache in my heart as I realize the depths of her pain that night. When I open them, Santana is looking at me with concern, as if she has said too much. I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it, my eyes trained on hers. I'm not backing down, and Santana sees it. She nods once and then continues.

It's heartbreaking to hear, but as she explains the feelings she has the best she can, I begin to see the relief on her face as she shares her burden. I listen, only occasionally interjecting a question or encouragement. Some of the stories she tells are actually funny, anecdotes that she locked away when she left Afghanistan along with the painful ones. When she struggles I lean forward to press kisses to her hands or her cheek, affirming that I love her and I'm still here.

We laugh, we cry, we hold each other for a long time. Where before I was just hopeful, I now feel a certain confidence that we'll be okay. Santana is still fragile, but she's finding that strength I know so well. I'm more proud of her than ever before.

_Fuck you, demons. She's mine._


End file.
